Not Your Nanny
by Laughing-Rabbit96
Summary: When Sherlock gets injured, it's only natural for his flatmate to want to help him out. He IS an army doctor, of course. A Johnlock one-shot with a little fluff, a bit of minor angst, and just them being them. (I actually got to use this for school (and got an A!))


"Sherlock... You can't keep doing things like this..." John groaned, one hand pinching the bridge of his wide nose and the other massaging his temple in frustration.

"Like... _what_, exactly?" his friend mused, hardly paying him any attention and toying with a few trinkets on the table.

_For a super genius, he can be such an __idiot__ sometimes!_ "THIS, Sherlock!" John jabbed his finger at the younger man's bloodied arm. "I don't even know what it is you did this time, but I know you ignored what I said and went out on your own again!"

Sherlock's stunning blue eyes flickered up to John, who was standing over him with his hands flat against the light oak dining table, his brows furrowed and mouth pressed into a hardened line, before glancing back down at his arm, turning his head slightly so that his dark mass of curls would keep his eyes hidden from John's view.

"It's nothing to worry about, John. This is my job and you... Your job is not to be my nanny."

John's brows lifted and his eyes widened. "N... Nanny?"

"Yes," Sherlock confirmed, shifting his position in the chair to better suit his injured arm. With his good arm- his left one- he tugged at the dark blue scarf around his neck until it fell into his lap and then proceeded to slowly unbutton the few buttons on his high-collared trench coat, crossing one leg over the other and making sure to avoid all eye contact with the blonde-ish grey haired man in front of him. One could almost picture him crossing his arms and pouting with his bottom lip stuck out like a child. "_Nanny._"

John tossed his arms into the air, a sign of resignation and giving up. "Fine, then. You win, Sherlock. I'm done with this silly little game." _If he just clams up every time I try to talk to him about something like this, then so be it._ He gave Mr. Holmes one final look before exiting the room.

And so Sherlock sat. He sat and pondered every little thing John had said to him. He sat and examined the severity of his wound. He sat. And he waited.

_Surely John would come back and apologize._

_He was just that kind of man._

_...Wasn't he?_

Before his question could be answered, though, a noise could be heard from the living room, a noise that sounded horribly similar to that of one's feet catching on the corner of the Turkish rug just so much that whatever one was holding would inevitably fall to the ground with a... crashing sound, most likely.

_Ah._

_There it went._

"John?" Sherlock called, his deep British voice echoing throughout the almost-empty apartment.

His only response was a grunt and the sounds of scuffling to pick something up. " 'M fine... Just dropped something..."

Sherlock blinked a few times, uncrossing his legs and leaning forward ever-so-slightly, his jaw set and eyes locked on the corridor from the dining room to the living area, ignoring the intensifying pain in his arm. His sweatered companion came in as expected, carrying a medium-sized white box and a stony demeanor.

The consulting detective furrowed his dark brows in confusion, glancing between his friend and what his friend was holding. "What, pray tell, is that?"

John's stiff frown loosened into a small, understanding grin. "It's a first aid kit. Didn't your mother ever tend to your injuries as a child?"

"No."

"Oh..." John shuffled his feet a bit awkwardly, setting the box on the table. As he began unpacking the box, he asked that Sherlock remove his coat to make cleaning his arm wound a little easier for them both. Sherlock stood up, shaking his arm rather violently to get it off with just his one usable hand.

"Let me help, you git..." John mumbled, standing behind the taller man and gingerly removing the one sleeve and then the other, tossing it on the ground to go into the laundry bin. "You can sit again if you like."

As Sherlock sat, his eyes watching John curiously (rather like a cat), John went to pick up a disinfectant solution, but as soon as his fingers grazed the plastic, he paused.

"Sherlock...?"

"Yes, John?"

Mr. Watson studied his friend's face intently. "Why was it that you went after _that_ man specifically?"

"Simple. His height was 5'8". He had dark brown eyes and long, oily blonde hair tied back to keep his face clear of stress- and grime-related acne. Smelled like cigarette smoke and had a 'funny' accent. He walked with a slight limp in his left knee and blinked more than any other person I've ever seen in my li-"

"Wait." John's eyes widened in concern as he picked up the small bottle and a few cotton balls. "You mean to tell me that... when I described the man from Afghanistan that killed my mates, you remembered... every detail... and just happened to find him in _London_?!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes condescendingly. "Oh, please. You think it was that simple?"

Taken aback, John could only shrug.

"No, I can tell you it wasn't very easy to find him. Had to go to all that trouble to lure the sneaky bastard here..." he grumbled, thinking back to the late-night planning sessions he'd had.

John could only muster so much stability with his hands, shakily tending to the arm in front of him, the words swirling around in his brain. Sherlock let out a slight hiss at the pain, but continued to sit without flinching.

"I thought... I thought you just..."

"What?" Sherlock asked, squinting and peering up skeptically at him. "You thought I had just run out of here like a madman with absolutely _no_ basis for catching a criminal just to make you worry over me?"

"I..."

He rolled his eyes again, a low sigh escaping from his throat. "Idiot..."

Grabbing the gauze, John ignored the comment and rolled out enough to bandage a ragged six-inch gash in Sherlock's forearm. He snipped that off, holding it up to be sure on its length.

"So you... did this for me...?" he mumbled quietly, beginning to wrap the gauze.

"Isn't that obvious?" Sherlock retorted sarcastically, letting his head fall back onto the top of the chair so that he was staring at the ceiling.

No words could seem to form in John's mouth, so he merely continued wrapping, over and under, around and around.

"And you're still my nanny," Sherlock confirmed, his eyes now shut.

John looked down at his handiwork and smiled.

"Yeah, yeah... I'm still your nanny, I suppose."

John continued talking (mostly to himself) about how much Sherlock resembled a child and how funny that was to called his nanny and piddly bits of conversation like that. Even though he couldn't see it from the angle he was at, a small, almost unnoticeable smirk had spread its way across Sherlock's lips, making one cheekbone stick out a little further than the other to make what one might call... a real smile.


End file.
